A Touch of Scarlet

by Renee Ryan

  Sally acknowledged her words with a head bob. She looked about to say more but then took another breath and turned away from the piano, sufficiently ending that portion of their conversation. “Another letter came for you this afternoon”—the maid’s eyes went dark and turbulent—“from the same Florida address as the others.”

  Her mother had written her again. That made three letters.

  “I set it with the previous two, along with several invitations and a letter with an Arizona postmark.”

  How odd. Elizabeth didn’t know anyone living in Arizona.

  “Thank you, Sally.” Eager to solve the mystery, she started for the door. “I’ll head upstairs straightaway.”

  “Would you like me to come with you?”

  She was not so fragile that she needed company opening a letter from an unknown address. “Stay, play awhile longer.”

  Sally looked longingly at the piano, back at Elizabeth. “You are certain?”

  “Beyond certain.”

  Minutes later, she sat at her writing desk, Hester’s shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The rain had done its damage, and the silk was ruined, but Elizabeth didn’t care about the garment’s appearance. Only what it represented.

  The first thing she noticed was how Sally had organized the pieces of correspondence in three neat piles.

  Elizabeth tackled the largest stack first. An invitation to a ball, three requests for her attendance at various dinner parties, one to a soiree for ladies only, and a hastily scribbled note from Penelope reminding Elizabeth about the performance of Carmen in her father’s opera house the following evening.

  Apprehension took hold of Elizabeth. She remembered Sophie’s vulnerable expression in the department store. There’d been resentment and purpose in her gaze as well. If the girl wished to confront her father, and wanted to do so with the most impact, the performance would be the perfect place.

  One question would be all it would take: Are you my father?

  Quick, clean, and tidy, with unimaginable repercussions to the guilty and innocent alike. The damage would be great and impossible to undo.

  A burst of panic had her writing a quick response to Penelope. Not only would Elizabeth attend the performance, she would make sure she sat beside her friend. And Luke. She would be there for him as well, whether he liked it or not.

  Heart in her throat, Elizabeth penned another quick note, alerting Luke she would be at the opera and expected to see him there. He would understand the hidden meaning in her words.

  That deed done, she set aside both notes, knowing she would have Sally deliver them later, and studied the next two stacks. One included her mother’s three letters. The other held a single letter from Tucson, Arizona.

  A rush of emotion clawed in her throat. The handwriting was familiar and dear. The letter was from Hester. Tears pricked but remained unshed.

  Elizabeth forced herself to remain calm, to think logically. If Hester had written her—from an Arizona address, no less—that meant her former governess was doing better. More importantly, she was alive.

  After securing the shawl tighter around her shoulders, she ripped open the envelope.

  My dear, sweet Elizabeth,

  I pray this letter finds you well and that the shawl I sent you is showing a bit of wear.

  Smiling, Elizabeth glanced at the garment in question. The ends were frayed where she’d snipped off the fringe to put in the cameo and other lockets. There was also a sizable section missing where she’d cut into the shawl to make hair ribbons. Most telling of all, the silk was faded to a drab red from its time in the rain. “Hester,” she whispered, “I think you would approve.”

  Elizabeth lowered her head and continued reading.

  I am writing from my new home, St. Mary’s Sanatorium in Tucson, Arizona.

  Elizabeth’s hand flew to her throat. Hester was living in a sanatorium? That could mean only one thing.

  Have no fear, my dear. I do not have tuberculosis. My lungs are merely weak. I have been in residence less than a week, but I already feel at home. I am enjoying fresh air, sunshine, and friendship. I felt especially strong yesterday and accompanied two of the sisters on what they call a “begging tour” to raise money for the Indian schools they built in San Xavier and Komatke. We also sought funds for their orphanage.

  I am pleased to report that the Sisters of St. Joseph and I are of a like mind. I have found my calling, Elizabeth. The Lord has been very gracious at a time I thought my life was over. This is the adventure I have always sought, in a most unexpected yet fulfilling way.

  Elizabeth sighed, the happy sound filling the room. “I am so pleased for you, my friend.”

  In closing, please thank your young man for me, not only for his generous donation to our cause but also for making the arrangements to send me here. Had Mr. Griffin not found this sanatorium, I would have been forever stuck in that horrible hospital bed, full of regrets.

  I will write again soon. If you find a moment, I would love to hear where my shawl has been.

  Yours, most humbly,

  Hester

  Elizabeth reread the letter, quicker this time, then refolded the paper and placed it in the drawer with the others Hester had sent.

  Oh, Luke, you dear, wonderful man. His actions had probably saved Hester’s life.

  Struggling to absorb the extravagance of his gift, she took a long breath. He loved her, the dear, wonderful, stubborn, stubborn man; nothing else explained the lengths he’d gone to in order to give Hester a comfortable new life.

  There was a drumming in Elizabeth’s heart, an anticipation that had been building in her ever since he’d taken her walking in the rain. This was the confirmation she’d been seeking, the realization that she could have more, be more, if she was willing to take a chance.

  Love without reservation.

  Retrieving her Bible, she pulled out her list, studied the entries. Hester had been her inspiration to start the journey. Now, she was the reason Elizabeth assessed the direction she’d initially taken.

  She’d been raised in the church, taught to serve people in need but only from a distance.

  What she’d really done was live for herself, selfishly resisting the blessings she’d been given, wanting more than duty. More than blind obedience. More than marriage to a stranger for the sake of the family.

  How shortsighted she’d been.

  No wonder her life had seemed so empty. She’d been chasing the wrong adventures, searching for validation in the wrong places, from the wrong people.

  Oh, Elizabeth still wanted more. But now she wanted more of a chance to impact others. Urging Sally to play the piano whenever she wished was a start, but it was not nearly enough. Perhaps she could nurture the maid’s talent in a way that would lead her to a better situation. Elizabeth wouldn’t stop there. She would help others in need and expand her influence beyond her small, privileged world. The world Katherine St. James found so appealing.

  The unopened letters from her mother caught her attention.

  She sat staring at them, the familiar handwriting blurring before her eyes, riveting her attention until her chin dropped. A swarm of unpleasant memories swirled in her mind, taking her back to the day she’d discovered her mother’s true nature. The reflex to throw the letters across the room came fast and hard. No. She would not give in to emotion. She’d been a coward for too long.

  Chin firmed, shoulders square, Elizabeth opened the first of the three letters and read her mother’s words.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The twelfth annual performance of Carmen had yet to begin. A problem had broken out backstage, delaying the opening act by ten full minutes. No, make that—Luke flipped open his pocket watch—fifteen minutes. And counting.

  Fidgeting uncomfortably in their chairs, the gentlemen of the orchestra gave one another helpless shrugs. Their instruments were tuned, their sheet music neatly organized in front of them, but they hadn’t played a single bar of the famous oper
a. Not even the prelude.

  From his spot at the back of the theater, Luke inwardly cringed. He, along with the roomful of 150 invited guests, could hear a pair of raised female voices arguing in Italian.

  Eager for a glimpse of the drama unfolding behind the velvet curtain, the audience leaned forward in their seats, tongues wagging. Luke shuddered to think what conclusions they’d already drawn. This particular performance would be the talk of wealthy New Yorkers for months to come.

  “Mio Dio, non posso sopportare altri insulti!” shouted one of the voices.

  “É lei che mi insulta!” came the reply.

  The room gave a collective gasp. Then . . .

  The whispers began again in earnest.

  Luke had no idea what either woman screamed at the other, but he recognized the voices. One was from Warren’s past, the other from his present.

  A sense of inevitability took hold. And Luke realized he’d failed the women in his family. This evening was not going to end well. Whether he interfered or kept out of the fray, Warren Griffin’s past had caught up with him. The ensuing scandal was but moments away. All Luke could do now was manage the aftereffects.

  He let out a slow, careful, silent push of air. The gesture reduced the tension between his shoulders not one bit. Given a choice, he’d prefer to leave the theater this very minute. He didn’t dare. He needed to be present in case the worst happened.

  When the worst happened.

  “Io canterò per essere al comando!”

  “Dovrai passare sul mio cadavere! Non siete in grado di cantare le arie di Carmen!”

  Luke knew he should probably head backstage and see if he could calm the raging female tempest. But his father had threatened him with bodily harm if he got involved. Luke didn’t fear Warren’s fist. No, what kept him rooted to the spot was a very real sense that if he put himself in the middle of the women’s argument, he would only complicate matters.

  This was his father’s battle. Not his.

  Still. Dread filled him. He shifted his stance, ran his gaze over the assembled crowd. There wasn’t an empty seat in the tiny theater. Some of the most powerful men in New York sat beside their equally influential wives, the latter hungry for a juicy scandal. They would get their wish soon enough.

  Penelope and Simon had taken their seats in the front row. They seemed oblivious to everything around them, their heads bent in quiet conversation. Simon’s hand rested on Penelope’s arm in a protective gesture. This wasn’t the first time Luke had watched the two closely, but it was the first time he saw what he’d been unable to discern because of his own prejudice.

  Simon was, indeed, devoted to Penny, and she to him.

  That devotion will be tested before the night is through.

  For months, Luke had worked hard to prevent this very thing, a futile attempt on his part to control the people around him, his father in particular.

  Warren Griffin was an arrogant man, full of entitlement, and unwilling to change.

  Luke didn’t often pray. He did so now, lifting up a fervent request that the Lord protect the innocent in the room tonight.

  Please, Lord, this is all I ask.

  Opening his eyes once again, he focused on the woman sitting on Penelope’s left. Elizabeth had arrived later than many of the other guests, but her presence next to Penelope gave Luke a moment of peace.

  Unfortunately, the way she flinched every time a string of angry Italian burst through a seam in the curtains indicated she, like Luke, feared what was to come.

  She shot a nervous glance over her shoulder, as if looking for someone in particular. Not someone, him. From his vantage point in the shadows, Luke watched her a moment in frozen silence. His breath caught in his throat. She was so lovely.

  The shock of her beauty never ceased to call forth a strong visceral response in him. He gave the sensation free rein tonight, let his breathing quicken and his heart pound wildly in his chest.

  The green-and-gold gown she wore shimmered in the soft glow of the theater lighting, taking on the same hue as the heavy velvet curtains covering the stage. She looked delicate, beguiling, and yet also dynamic. The unexpected flares of fiery mischief lurking beneath the doll-like beauty captivated Luke. Enthralled him.

  Called to him.

  As if she sensed his presence, her gaze sought and found his.

  She smiled.

  Despite the apprehension pooling in his gut, he smiled back. He’d evaded his feelings for so long, this poignant moment extorted the last scraps of calm he possessed.

  Leaving her seat, Elizabeth joined him at the back of the theater, setting her back against the wall. “I looked for you earlier.”

  “I only just arrived.”

  She worried her bottom lip. “Did you speak with your father?”

  He nodded. “The conversation did not go well.”

  An understatement. His father had been full of denial and fury. There hadn’t been an ounce of remorse in Warren’s bearing. Luke had looked. His appeal to Warren’s character had fallen flat. A man couldn’t change unless he wanted to do so. Warren did not want to change.

  “I was afraid of that.” Elizabeth said something more, but her words were lost under a river of furious Italian expletives. He knew exactly what those meant.

  Feeling her flinch beside him, Luke turned to Elizabeth and caught her staring up at him. In her evening slippers, she stood to the height of his chin. Mesmerized, he held her gaze. The look in her eyes was tenderness itself, a look full of affection and . . . love.

  She loved him.

  The revelation caused him an instant of absolute peace. He loved her in return, with everything he was. Suddenly, he wanted to tell her everything in his heart.

  Now was not the time. This was not the place.

  The precious moment lasted three, perhaps four heartbeats. Luke tried to collect every second and commit it to memory so that in the future when he closed his eyes, Elizabeth would be there, smiling at him as if he were the most special man in the world.

  “While I have your attention . . .” She paused. “I would like to say thank you, Luke. What you did for my friend.” Another pause. “It was . . . I can’t begin to tell you . . .” She gave an anxious little laugh. “There are no words to express my gratitude.”

  Having a hard time keeping up with her erratic speech, he asked, “What exactly do you think I did?”

  “You made arrangements for Hester’s move to St. Mary’s Sanatorium. It could not have been easy or, dare I say, without great cost to you.”

  Luke went still for a heartbeat. Elizabeth wasn’t supposed to know what he’d done for her former governess. Hester had promised to keep his involvement only between them. He thought back to their conversation. He’d asked her to keep quiet. Had she actually agreed? The older woman had patted his hand, smiled, then thanked him profusely, but no, she hadn’t given her word.

  “Don’t look so grim, Luke. Hester is greatly appreciative.”

  “I didn’t do it for her. I did it for you.”

  “Luke.” In a sweet tone most effective for its softness, she said, “I . . . Oh, Luke, I . . . Thank you.”

  The love was there, in her eyes, in her tone, taking over, filling his heart, and releasing the years of built-up anger, tearing down the wall he’d erected between them. He felt defenseless against the sensation, against her.

  You could have a life with her. Not without bringing harm to her. “Go back to your seat.”

  “I want to stand by you.” Her words held a double meaning.

  “I don’t want to ruin you by association.”

  “Of course you don’t. You can’t; it’s not in your nature.”

  “You don’t understand.” He took a stabilizing breath. “There are things I’ve done in my past that cannot be undone. You could be harmed merely by standing beside me tonight.”

  “You don’t mean to insult me. I know that.” She cut him a quick, irritated look. “So I’m going to change the sub
ject.”

  Before he could say a word, she hurled into a lengthy dissertation on the weather. Luke felt his lips curve upward, especially when she expounded on the virtue of spring rain showers.

  How could he not love this woman?

  How could he let her go to England?

  In the middle of her ridiculous speech, the shouting stopped suddenly, the silence more jolting than the screeching Italian.

  A hush fell over the theater.

  Luke’s father appeared from behind the center slit in the curtains, then took up a spot near center stage. His features were set and stern, matched only by the severity of his black coat and crisp white shirt. He looked put-upon, a man pushed to his limits. No wonder—mediating an argument between two divas required fortitude.

  “There will be a change in the cast this evening.” Warren paused, looked over his shoulder, grimaced, and continued. “It is my great honor to announce the lead mezzo-soprano role will be sung by the incomparable . . . Esmeralda Cappelletti.”

  A murmuring went up from the crowd.

  The performance of a lifetime was upon them.

  At the same moment Warren nodded to the orchestra, the door on Luke’s right swung opened with a bang. All heads turned, including Luke’s. Elizabeth’s hand went to his arm.

  In stepped a stunning young woman a few years older than Penelope. She hovered at the entrance of the theater, poised and unmoving. She scanned the crowd, found who she was looking for an instant later.

  Warren’s face went completely ashen.

  Luke exchanged a bleak look with Elizabeth.

  “That’s Sophie.” Her voice came at him as if from a great distance. He nodded. He didn’t need confirmation. Those amber eyes didn’t lie.

  Luke reached for a calm that didn’t exist. Sophie had a beautiful, dramatic face, the perfect mix of exotic and innocent. She had her mother’s dark hair and regal bearing. She had her father’s eyes. And she was Luke’s sister.